


Singing of What is Past, Passing, or to Come

by blueteak



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Companionable Snark, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:45:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueteak/pseuds/blueteak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Gene find something new to argue about: music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Singing of What is Past, Passing, or to Come

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to martianholidays and written for mountland's prompt: Sam/Gene with the fic based around any song by Roger Whittaker(fav songs are streets of London, New World in the Morning,A Special Kind of Man, And Image to my Mind) with a winter/autumn theme.
> 
> Ideas about Sam's music inspired by a post bymargo_kim at lifein1973 on canon v. fanon. Title stolen from Yeats.

Sam ran his fingers gently down the album’s spine, smiling at the realization that he could press down without being stabbed by that jagged, unwelcoming edge you felt when you pressed the side of a cd.

However much he still missed Pulp and U2, the record shop felt like home in a way that 2006’s HMV, with its rows upon rows of prickly product wrapped in plastic, never had.

In many ways, this place had felt like a happier home than any of his others. This shop was a part of the 1970s that had always been free of Vic Tyler’s absence and his mother’s brittle bravery. It had been the place he could escape to and choose whether he wanted to follow the yellow brick road, communicate with ground control, or just let it be.

Sam felt blissfully out of time, grateful that the shop still allowed him to escape. While he was here, he wasn’t contaminating or contaminated by what had already been; there was no relationship with Auntie Heather to strain, no memories of Vic Tyler to sully, and no guns to pull on Gene, even when the man attempted to swat Honkey Chateau out of his hands.

Gene was now loitering by the door clutching his record, the side with Roger Whittaker’s face buried in his camelhair.

He’d had “Oi! Tyler!” poised on his lips for the past five minutes, but the sight of Sam so clearly in his element, muscles itching to move to the beat, kept Gene from frog-marching him out to the Cortina.

He waited, watching Sam’s arse when he leaned over the records, cherry red trousers stretched tight and just begging for Gene to make the flesh beneath match.

When he thought his intentions for Sam’s arse might be too obvious, he turned to glare at hippies.

After all, hippies did need glaring at and he certainly couldn’t count on Sam to do it. Gene got the sense that when Sam was in this shop, his “Essence of DI,” or whatever it was Sam had that made him so by the book at all times, was vaporized by the power of Jim Bloody Morrison or whoever.

Rock and roll Sam was very sexy, Gene would give him that. And much, much more, when they got home. Gene just had a sneaking suspicion that Sam, under certain circumstances, wouldn’t arrest the drugs sandwiched between the sex and the rock and roll.

Other than the fear that Sam would ask for an autograph from Jerry Garcia rather than slap a set of handcuffs on him, Gene found that he couldn’t get enough of music loving Sam.

It wasn’t that they didn’t fight about music. They did. Though their music fights, unlike some of their others, didn’t leave them with their fists aching and various appendages dripping blood no matter how many times Gene claimed that listening to Bowie made his ears bleed.

While the air-clearing after a bare-knuckle fight may have been how they had started their relationship, heated debates of the kind they’d had about The Grateful Dead when Sam had deadpanned “well, if you’ve got a warrant, I guess you’d better come in” after the 10th time Gene had broken down his door were going to be what helped keep them going.

Arguing with Sam about the relative merits of music that sounded like a bin being attacked by a pack of whinging squirrels (Sam’s music) verses songs with lyrics that actually said something about the aspirations of mankind beyond “ring this bell for sex” or “drugs are nice” (Gene’s music) brought a spark to Sam’s eyes that Gene didn’t often see.

Not to say there weren’t other sparks. Sparks when Sam found an important toenail clipping or some such thing at a crime scene, sparks when Gene refused any form of bribe, and, oh yes, sparks in the bedroom.

But Gene knew they had more than that, that their spark would have dimmed over time if they hadn’t also shared activities that didn’t include sex or work.

They would never knit sweaters together or take up ballroom dance, but staying up ‘til all hours debating a record, eyes gritty with the need to sleep, hearts thudding with righteous appreciation (or indignation) and song? That they enjoyed, even when that “Life on Mars” song made Sam go strangely quiet.

And yet Gene refused to accompany Sam to the next T-Rex concert, even though Sam seemed somehow certain it would be one of their last, at least with the current lineup. Gene wasn’t persuaded. He couldn’t properly explain just how awful the music was over the sound of it in concert, after all.

He also knew the arena would be full of people with no respect for the city, the law, or proper chord progression, so he was stood outside in the freezing cold waiting to give Sam a lift home and resolutely not thinking about Sam waving his arms about, exchanging sweat and, he hoped, nothing else, inside.

Gene grimaced, realizing that stood out here by the arena entryway, collar up against the cold, he might look more like a father waiting to pick up his teenager than a man waiting to pick up his….Sam. And with all the fretting he’d been doing he sounded just like a father too. Christ.

A homeless man sat slumped in the arena entryway, a stack of the day’s unsold newspapers next to him. Gene strode over to purchase old news, hoping to distract himself in some way, just as the first flakes of snow started to fall.

The man tried to shrink further inside his ill-fitting coat as Gene approached, whether frightened by Gene or protecting himself from the cold Gene did not know. Probably both.

Track marks on the parts of his arms not covered by the coat. And a war medal. Gene didn’t know whether to kick the man or try to help him. Or possibly both. They weren’t mutually exclusive.

“You a copper?” The man asked, following Gene’s eyes to the track marks. “I’m off the stuff, but I’ve already lost my house, my wife…I’m not causing any trouble, here, honestly.”

The snow started to fall heavily. The newsprint bled.

Gene glanced up at the sky, blinking back flakes. This was snow that was designed to stick, to wrap the city in a snug blanket of silence.

Music throbbed from inside, disrupting any peace the snow might bring. The homeless man continued to watch him warily, not moving even to brush away the snow now covering his sparse hair.

“I’m a DCI. You an actual veteran, or do you just like sharp, pointy things whether or not they have drugs in them?”

“Korea,” the man informed him, bristling.

Good. Gene held out money in exchange for a ruined newspaper. “Take this. Go to the main station and tell that battle axe of a bird named Phyllis Dobbs at the front desk that Gene Hunt says she’s to feed you and put you up.”

“In a cell?”

“Oh, pardon me. You’d rather be pissed on by a stream of hippies when they come out of there. One way to keep warm.”

The man shot Gene a grudging, uncertain smile, then got to his feet, wincing at the stiffness in his limbs.

He held out his hand. After a long moment, Gene shook it.

Gene was left alone, holding a soggy paper, still waiting for Sam.

At long last, the wailing inside died down and Sam came out, flushed, beaming, and looking like he was ready for a night club rather than a night in. Gene not so surreptitiously checked his pupil size.

They were quite large. Maybe Sam had a contact high…maybe….

Sam was grinning his “you’re being ridiculous and I find it adorable” grin, which was a damn sight better than his “you’re being ridiculous and I’m going to ignore you” scowl.

“I can guess what you’re thinking, you always call me “Mary Jane” for a time after a concert. I swear I’m not on drugs, officer,” he whispered. “I’m just excited to see you.”

Gene’s face remained inscrutable as he dragged Sam away from the crowd and tilted his chin up, bringing their faces together until their noses almost touched. Sam’s breathing quickened until he was inhaling cold air at a rate that must have hurt. His pupils widened further.

Gene studied him for a long moment, then smirked and stepped back. “Home, Sam, or clu—“

“Home.” And then Sam was kissing him.

Their soundtrack for the moment, if they’d had one, would have been a mix of “Streets of London” and “Get It On.” A strange, somewhat jarring mix to be sure, but one that they could live with, at least until it came time to choose the evening’s record.


End file.
